The Einstein Girl

by Philip Sington

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Albert briefly examined the bowl of his pipe. ‘He has no conversation whatsoever, but at least he carries my luggage. My back is grateful for the lack of employment, but my tongue is quite dismayed.’

  The coffee arrived, along with a small jug of milk. In Zürich, when they were all students together, it had seemed to Helene that Albert lived on coffee – coffee, tobacco and sausages, and those not always of the best quality. Mileva used to worry that he would end up with rickets and started cooking for him as the only way of ensuring his survival. It had all backfired horribly when Albert told his mother to send her food parcels to Mileva’s address. The suggestion that they were already sharing rooms outraged Frau Einstein’s sense of decency. The two women had been on bad terms from that moment.

  ‘Have you brought the letters?’ Albert said, pouring the coffee.

  Helene blushed. So that was it for small talk. It had been brief; civil, but without warmth. She and Albert had not been in touch since his divorce, but she had expected him to take some pleasure in the rekindling of old memories.

  ‘They’re all here. Some got lost, of course.’ Albert watched her in silence. ‘I’m still not clear why you want them. They’re Mileva’s letters, after all.’

  ‘Mileva wants them too.’

  ‘You’re taking them back to her?’

  Albert slid a cup of coffee towards her. It was a foolish question. The letters were going to be destroyed: too much information on an unhappy marriage; too much information about an illegitimate child Albert had never seen. With the fame and the money had come paranoia. There was no other explanation.

  Helene picked up her cup and then put it down again. ‘You’ve really nothing to fear, you know. I can be trusted.’

  Albert took a mouthful of coffee and frowned, either because he was troubled by her words or because the coffee was as disappointing as she had expected. ‘I’m sure you can. But what if something happened to you? Who would have the letters then? What if you were robbed?’

  ‘I can destroy them as easily as you can, if that’s what you both want.’

  Albert reached into his jacket pocket and took out a white envelope. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that. They’d be valuable one day. It wouldn’t be fair.’

  He propped the envelope up against the salt cellar, as if it were a birthday card. Helene looked at it, found herself mentally checking the thickness.

  ‘Why now?’

  ‘You have to ask?’ he said. ‘The business with Mariya Draganović. That little bit of mischief.’

  A look of annoyance crossed Albert’s face. Helene remembered how quick his temper could be, the sudden explosive rages that so terrified Mileva – though she would only speak of them in whispers. He was not a strong man, but from an early age he had been adept at harnessing the power of gravity. Anyone who upset him was in danger of being thrown down the stairs: children, servants, even his wife. Mileva said it was as if a different Albert took over, a man who had no control over his emotions, a man prey to all the passion and violence that, at all other times, he so feared and despised.

  ‘I wasn’t making mischief, Albert. I gave sound advice to a very bright girl. She was looking for a teacher and Mileva was the obvious person. That’s all there is to it.’

  Albert shook his head slowly. ‘You can stop pretending, Helene. Mileva told me everything. I know who Mariya Draganović is.’

  Helene felt the blood drain from her face. It had not been her idea to lie. It had been Mileva who had insisted. I shall tell him Lieserl is dead, she wrote to Helene in a letter. It was the year Albert went to Palestine, the year he delivered his Nobel lecture in Sweden. Ten years ago. It is best if he never thinks of his daughter again: best for him and for her. She wanted Helene to keep the secret.

  ‘I’m sorry, Albert. I only did as Mileva asked. She wanted me to keep quiet and I did.’ Albert sucked on his pipe. ‘Besides, it’s not as if you ever asked me about Lieserl. It’s not as if you ever took the slightest interest.’

  She found it hard to hurt Albert, even though he deserved to be hurt. He had always been like a child in that way. Guilt always rebounded on those who tried to scold him.

  ‘She came to Berlin,’ he said. ‘She had it in her mind to find her father.’

  ‘Mileva must have told her. I didn’t say a word, Albert. I promise.’

  Albert shook his head. ‘I know, I know. It was Eduard. He came across some old letters in Mileva’s apartment. About Lieserl. I don’t know when exactly. Perhaps years ago.’ He sniffed. ‘So. Now you understand why I’m here.’

  Helene hugged the satchel to her. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Happened?’

  ‘In Berlin.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  Albert shrugged. ‘She came out to the summer house.’ He pushed the coffee cup away from him, his tongue smacking disgustedly against his hard palate. ‘I shan’t come here again. It’s not like it was. A pity.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Albert picked up his pipe again, but it had gone out. He regarded the bowl with an expression of indifference, as if it no longer mattered to him if it produced smoke or not.

  ‘There was a misunderstanding. She approached me at a public lecture. Women often do. I’d no idea who she was. She said her name was Elisabeth. She taught mathematics. So I invited her to visit. I have a lot of visitors these days. More than I’d like.’

  Stories had reached Mileva about Albert’s life in Berlin, and some of those stories had reached Helene. His second marriage – to his cousin, Elsa – was as stormy as his first, apparently, and considerably less intimate. Albert would not be ruled by his wife in anything. She was not permitted to interfere in his life. He came and went as he pleased, ate when and where he pleased, entertained whomsoever he pleased. In Caputh it was even reported that Elsa was required to vacate the house entirely so that Albert could carry on with his female admirers without fear of embarrassment or interruption. These reports were whispered in Mileva’s ear by well-meaning allies. She was better off without him, they meant to say. But the reports only made Mileva angry. They were disloyal, she thought. Albert deserved better friends. In all the years since their divorce, Helene had never once heard Mileva speak ill of him.

  ‘So she went out there. I suppose you were alone.’

  ‘I was working. I wanted to get back to work. You have no idea how much is asked of me nowadays, Helene. It isn’t at all like it used to be, in Zürich. I was a free man then.’

  Helene began to feel uncomfortable. There had always been a suggestion of waywardness in Albert’s behaviour, even when they first met, a touch of the Lothario. In those days, Helene had seen it more as a pose than reality. But now, armed with the aphrodisiac of fame, freer than ever from the constraints that applied to ordinary mortals, he would have had ample opportunity to live the part for real.

  Mariya was to be another conquest, a brief amusement. Had he become that perfunctory with his ‘visitors’? Was there a routine? A favourite place in the house – an upstairs sitting room perhaps, with a commodious sofa?

  ‘She explained herself? You found out who she was before …?’

  ‘She said she was Lieserl. Can you imagine? Out of the blue. I thought I was being blackmailed. What else was I to think? Thanks to you.’

  Helene could picture it: Mariya hopeful, elated, tongue-tied, her heart in her mouth; he interpreting all this as the swooning devotion of a pretty young fan. How flattering. How arousing. And then to be baulked, ambushed by an outrageous claim that could not possibly be true.

  ‘You were angry.’

  ‘I threw her out.’

  ‘Down the stairs?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She hurt herself. That’s what Mileva said.’

  ‘She fell. It was raining. The steps were wet.’

  ‘Steps …’

  ‘I went after her, but she ran away. She probably thought …’

 
She thought her father was going to rape her. Helene felt faint. She did not want to hear any more, but Albert kept talking, anxious now to justify himself.

  ‘She stole my rowing boat. Jumped in and pushed off. I knew it would take in water, but she wasn’t listening.’ He tapped out his pipe in the ashtray. Unburned tobacco spilled out, along with the ash. ‘She was mad. I thought she’d pass out the rate she was breathing. I let her get on with it.’

  ‘You still didn’t know who she was?’

  ‘How could I? Nothing she said made sense. I only saw some sense in it when I learned her psychiatrist had turned up in Zürich.’

  Across the room, a local eminence and his wife were watching them. The man wore an indignant expression on his face, as if the presence of a genius in the café was an unmerited assault on his own importance.

  ‘All very unsettling,’ Albert said. ‘I was out of sorts for days. I’m determined nothing like it will ever happen again.’

  Helene gathered herself. ‘I’m sorry she disturbed you. I hope no harm was done.’

  Albert sighed. His breath smelled rank and sickly. ‘Not so far.’ He took out a tobacco pouch and began to refill his pipe. ‘But you can see why I’m inclined to be cautious, Helene, with so many people anxious to cast a stone at a stone.’ He chuckled at the pun on his name. ‘These days I’m a great graven image. Some people feel compelled to worship; others just want to cast me down.’

  The waiter returned to remove the cups. Before she could stop herself, Helene had snatched up the envelope, to keep it from his reach. When she looked up again, Albert was smiling.

  Once the waiter had gone she put the envelope back.

  ‘They used to have music here,’ Albert said. ‘What happened to the musicians?’

  ‘Viennese waltzes aren’t the fashion any more. Things have changed here, Albert.’

  ‘It was nice to just sit here and listen,’ he said. ‘Without the constant need to chatter.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I must be going.’

  Helene placed the satchel of letters in front of him. ‘They’re all here.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Albert said, as if the letters had slipped his mind. ‘Thank you.’

  He put the satchel over his shoulder and rose to go. It looked faintly comical on him, the strap being far too short for an adult, but he did not seem in the least bothered.

  ‘Albert.’ Helene reached across the table and put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t be angry with me. About Mariya. I didn’t feel I had the right to stand in her way. I never meant to cause a problem.’

  He patted her hand with his. ‘Problems are there to be solved. How dull life would be without them.’

  Helene smiled, although she did not feel like smiling. She felt she was losing something precious, this time for ever.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ Albert said. ‘Best I slip out unnoticed. A shame I can’t stay, but I have one more assignation here before I take my leave.’

  He put on his strange black hat again, and clenched his pipe between his teeth.

  ‘May I ask with whom?’

  ‘Just someone.’ Albert pulled some change from his trouser pocket and dropped it on the table, smiling. ‘Someone who shall be nameless.’

  Fifty-one

  Kirsch blinks awake. An old woman is shaking him gently by the knee, talking to him, though he can’t understand her. He has fallen asleep on the train. He sits up smartly, straightening his spectacles, aware of other people watching him. He’s short of breath and sweating, his shirt wet.

  The old woman nods and sits back, offering some explanation to the other passengers: the young man has been having a nightmare, probably something he ate. The other passengers laugh.

  The compartment is hot and airless. He finds it hard to breathe. The old woman makes another remark as he makes his way unsteadily into the corridor, tugging at his collar. She points to one of the luggage racks above the seat. She is telling him not to forget his suitcase. Doesn’t she know he has already lost it in the flood? He is halfway down the corridor before he realises that the flood was just a dream.

  After his visit to Kataníceva Street, he left Belgrade on the first train. There was no point in waiting for Helene Savić. She might not return for weeks, if she returned at all. She might not talk to him even if she did. But the journey from Berlin had exhausted him and it would have been better if he had rested for a while.

  At Novi Sad the stationmaster tells him there is a branch line running north-east via Titel. According to a large map on the wall, it will take him within a few miles of Orlovat. But the last train has already gone. He will have to stay the night.

  ‘I recommend the Hotel Queen Maria.’ The stationmaster says. His German is unusually good. ‘Oldest establishment in the province and still the best. Used to be the Queen Elisabeth before the war, but she was Bavarian, so …’

  He shrugs apologetically. Not an enthusiast for the Yugoslav federation, clearly. Kirsch frowns. The story is familiar. Then he remembers: like the hotel, Mariya was Elisabeth once. She was Lieserl. Does the stationmaster know that? Is he making a joke?

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  The stationmaster’s face falls. ‘No offence, sir.’ He points towards the street. ‘The taxi will take you.’

  Across the town, heavy, clanking bells strike two o’clock.

  Mariya Draganović hears them from the lobby of the Hotel Queen Maria. The sound echoes around the square outside, putting a flock of pigeons to flight. She folds her hands in her lap and waits. She has been waiting for half an hour already, nervousness churning her stomach.

  Ten days ago she received a letter from Mileva Einstein-Marić in Zürich. After enquiring after her health, it stated that her ex-husband was intent on a visit to Novi Sad and wanted to meet her. He was anxious to reassure himself about the state of her health and to clear up any misunderstandings that may have arisen in Berlin. The letter was followed a few days later by a telegram. It asked her to respond by return. The meeting is to take place at two o’clock today.

  She feels warm in her plain grey dress and her heavy travelling boots. The front door of the hotel has been propped open, to encourage a draught. Across the road a small child crouches on the cobbles, playing with a spinning top. She saw him before with his brothers and sisters, but they moved on some minutes ago with their mother. It appears the little boy has been forgotten. But he doesn’t seem to mind. All his attention is on the spinning top, which he examines on all fours, his cheek almost touching the ground, prostrate, as if the top is some tiny wooden deity, deceptive in the extent of its power.

  Mariya’s memories of Caputh are still incomplete, the fragments sharp and wounding: shards of a broken mirror. She took a steamer. It was the very end of the season: rows of empty seats, sunlight veiled and shimmering on the grey water. She took a path through the woods, surprised at the close, resinous air. She remembers fanning herself with the map she had bought herself. The flier for Einstein’s lecture kept falling out from between the folds. Finally she picked it up and tucked it into her chemise. Caputh was further away than it had seemed. Her dress grew heavy, tugging and flapping around her legs. Near the house, a car pulled out onto the road. A woman with untidy grey hair gave her a disdainful stare from the passenger seat.

  The whole house creaked like a ship. By the door was a space to leave your shoes. She felt breathless and unsteady as she stood in the hallway, tugging at her boots. The sitting room was upstairs. From a roof terrace steps went down into the garden, the white railings bright against the darkening sky. A tartan rug lay draped across a sunlounger.

  ‘Elsa has gone to Berlin for the afternoon. The shops and such.’

  They were alone. Mariya was pleased. She and Einstein had a lot to discuss, secrets to share. It would not do to be overheard.

  He had not received her letter, though she had posted it first class three days before. The postal service was not reliable, he said. Strikes were frequent. Besides, he had too much mail from me
mbers of the public. He only read what his private secretary told him to read. When she pressed him to check, he became irritable.

  ‘What could you have to tell me that you can’t tell me now?’

  But there was a lot she could not tell him. That was why she had written it down: to put the whole story before him so that he might understand her, know her as she wished to be known. She was hot from the walk. The room was stifling and the heavy wood smell faintly nauseating.

  ‘Can we get some air?’

  She got up and went to the French windows. The handle was stuck. Einstein watched her from the sofa, looking amused as she struggled to make it turn.

  ‘Take off your jacket,’ he said. ‘I want to have a look at you.’

  She remembers telling herself that this was natural enough. Why shouldn’t a father want to look at a long-lost child?

  She said she was thirsty. She needed time to gather her thoughts. Einstein disappeared and came back with something dark and sweet in a cut-glass tumbler. He had on baggy trousers and a tennis shirt. His skin looked tanned against the white fabric.

  She did not know how to begin. The shame was too much. She felt faint. She took off her jacket. The heavy cotton blouse clung to her skin. Then they were both on the sofa. Einstein asked her about the lecture. Had she been able to follow it? Had he spent too much time on the field equations? Was the differential geometry comprehensible? It was as if he had no real idea who she was or why she had come. Yet at the Philharmonic Hall he had seemed to recognise her at once. She only had to say her name for him to draw her aside. ‘We must talk,’ he said. ‘The sooner the better. I’ve been hoping you would seek me out.’

  She gulped down the drink. It burned in her throat. Einstein patted her on the knee. ‘Now, what did you want to tell me?’

  At some point she fainted. When she came around she thought she was dreaming. She was in Orlovat. Everywhere flooded land, the river dark and swollen, the crows picking at her sister’s lips as she lay in the branches of a willow. The kitchen table with the lantern above it, swinging back and forth above her. A voice in her head that said: This is not me. I am not here.